“‘Old Lady Grandma’ [my mother-in-law] is 9X9 years old! How old is ‘Grandma, Grandma’ [our mom]?” 7-year-old Parker asks in the course of completing his times table chart. (This task has been left to after 7 PM because he “forgot” that it was in his pocket to complete earlier today when he worked in my office on campus while I attended a meeting. Once we returned home, making noise on his new recorder easily trumped math.)
“63,” I respond.
“Oh, 9X7 years old,” says Parker.
Then “Mama, I’m done with my noodles,” Olivia hollers from the kitchen table, where she’s been enjoying a snack dinner of left over Panda Express Chow Mein.
“Okay,” I tell her and reluctantly leave the computer to make sure the remaining noodles make it BACK into the refrigerator. She pushes in front of me, grabs an apple her father had earmarked for pie, and bites into it before I can complete that thought. Ah, well, it’s healthy…
The rest of us had a very late snack of $1-a-scoop ice cream at Baskin Robbins. Can you believe I actually changed into “play clothes” consisting of white jeans and a blue tank top before going back out for ice cream? I LOVE white “bottoms.” This summer, it’s white denim shorts, white pencil capris, and very low rise white 5-pocket jeans. Maybe it’s a barely conscious rebellion against the “I never wear white” mama mantra. It’s a cool, sharp look that few – if any – mom’s wear.
I’d been wearing charcoal grey silk dress pants with a charcoal grey lace top, golden yellow chunky heeled pumps, and “big” necklace, which was great – very striking. I even received a compliment from a student as I practically ran past the Registrar’s office through the first floor of our admin. building to my meeting in the Chancellor’s conference room on the top floor. But I felt HOT and STUFFY. So when we stopped at home to pick up clothes a friend needed to borrow, I changed into the white jeans, tank, and flip flops.
We stopped at my friend’s home, then Target, then Baskin Robbins. I gave each of my older a children a $1 and let them handle their own orders, which included a mind-numbing number of “tastes,” while I quickly ordered a kid’s size scoop of vanilla ice cream for Olivia and a scoop of Peanut Butter & Chocolate ice cream in a waffle cone for me. Yum! I sat down at the table, enjoyed my first lick, and “plop,” chocolate ice cream on my tank! Then Olivia, who was uncharacteristically uninterested in HER ice cream, started swinging between “my” table and “hers.” My elbow slipped and “plop” more chocolate ice cream on my pants. Focused on cool rich chocolate, intense super-thick ribbons of peanut butter, and the first hand made waffle cone I’d had in quite a while, I – and this is no joke – completely, blissfully ignored the chocolate spots on my clothes. Ask my children. ALL 4 of them made a point of telling me that I had chocolate on my tank and/or jeans!
I’m not an idiot. Of course, I KNOW chocolate spots need to be “treated.”
In short order, we left Baskin Robbins to walk to Sports Chalet to look for a “water bottle with a strap to make it easy to carry while running.” I had to stop at the car to get my ATM card and ID. When I ducked into the car, I grabbed a “baby wipe” to clean up a bit, as well as my cards.
And we were off.